


happy liminal spacemas !

by dramaturgicallycorrect, veryniceandgood



Series: niall and jack (and sometimes harry) [1]
Category: Dunkirk (2017) RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 16:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaturgicallycorrect/pseuds/dramaturgicallycorrect, https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryniceandgood/pseuds/veryniceandgood
Summary: Harry stops in his tracks when he notices Niall’s set out three place settings on the island. “Three?”“Yeah, sorry, I hope you don’t mind if my mate joins us? He’s over for a few weeks, seems sort of, I dunno. Weird to banish him.”“No, that’s perfectly fine. Of course, honestly, I insist. It’s great. Great idea. Three’s company. Obviously.”“Okay,” Niall says slowly, like he does when he thinks Harry’s being daft, and turns back to his pan.[Or Jack intrudes on Niall and Harry’s traditional Christmas movie and dinner, and it takes Harry a while to figure out why he’s there.]





	happy liminal spacemas !

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coldbam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldbam/gifts).



> to coldbam - thatwasforyou.gif
> 
> to everyone else - welcome to the ship you never knew you needed. happy liminal spacemas. [sunglasses emoji]

 

Harry stamps his feet a few times, trying to knock some feeling back into his toes. He’d not gone for proper winter shoes because he hadn’t imagined Niall would leave him on his front porch for three straight days, just because he’s tetchy Harry’s a little late.

Niall always gets tetchy and Harry both hates and loves that his point gets proven for him when Niall opens the door at long last and says, unimpressed, “You’re late.”

Which, while accurate, is honestly splitting hairs because usually Harry’s a solid hour late and this time he’s -- he checks his phone painstakingly around his bag, swinging his two bottles of Malbec haphazardly -- only fifty-one minutes late.

In the spirit of Christmas, though, or at least late Christmas -- as it’s in that sweet liminal space between Christmas and New Year’s where genuinely everything is possible -- Niall lets him into his house.

Harry peels off his coat, again around the clanging of the bottles of wine, before allowing Niall to store it in the coat closet by the door. He kicks off his shoes and carefully sets them next to a pair of black lace up boots that look entirely too battered to be Niall’s.

“I’ve gotta warm up my toes in front of your fireplace or they’ll fall off.”

“Dramatic. Gimme.” Niall takes the bag from Harry’s hands without waiting to be handed them and sets off into the house.

Harry breathes in the woodsy scent Niall’s house is bathed in, a sure sign he’s topped up his store of Ambre candles from Diptyque as soon as he’d gotten home from Bobby’s.

Harry loves a tradition, especially a Christmas-New Year’s Liminal Space tradition. Harry’s always had far too many Christmas DVDs to stop watching them at Christmas, and him and Niall have had a standing appointment to watch one together for the past seven years. Harry brings the wine and the movie, Niall does them up a Jamie Oliver 30-minute meal, and they gossip for hours until they’re too pissed to make use of the English language.

Then, Niall will let Harry sneak into his bed if he promises to keep his cold toes to himself, Niall will pretend he doesn’t mind the snoring because that’s what true friendship is, and Harry will be dead ‘til morning, where he’ll rise without a hangover because there’s something magical about a Horan household.

Best time of the year, really.

It’s been ages since Harry’s seen him, since they’ve even talked, to be honest. Harry’d checked, and the last text before Niall confirmed for tonight was from two months ago. Harry insists it’s no one’s particular fault, just a happenstance of long hours and absurd scheduling, ships passing in the night, and so on and so forth. They’re _both_ busy, not just Harry.

He putters in his socks further into Niall’s new place, Niall having gone off like he’s forgotten that this is the first time Harry’s been over and he doesn’t quite know where to go. He rounds enough corners to join Niall in the kitchen, draping himself dramatically in the archway leading in until Niall notices.

Niall doesn’t notice though, just hums to himself as he squats to check something through the oven door, so Harry takes it upon himself to say, “Are you going to give me a hug? I feel neglected.”

Niall’s eyebrows quirk up, his face going just about as serious as Harry wants it to go, and he starts his approach with his arms already open. “Wouldn’t want that.”

Harry sinks into him, feeling all warm inside, like he always does when Niall’s around. It’s like balance is restored to the universe. Not that anything was particularly off balance to begin with, but it just feels right. Better.

When they pull away, Harry gives him a onceover, then a twiceover just to be safe, and while he’s seen Niall’s face plastered just about everywhere in London since he’s been back, he can’t help but feel a jarring sort of sensation at the sight. He’s a new man. He looks settled in. At peace a bit.

“This is nice,” Harry says, plucking at Niall’s oversized fisherman’s sweater in a deep navy that complements his eyes in just the right way until Niall bats his hands off. It’s not exactly Niall’s style, but what is style if it’s not fluid, and maybe it _is_ Niall’s style now that he’s… evolved.

Niall hums. “S’comfy.”

Harry buries his head back into the jumper, just to confirm its comfiness -- it is indeed very comfy -- and mumbles into it, “Missed you a bit.”

“Yeah?”

“A bit.”

Niall slides a gentle hand up and down Harry’s back, just like he likes. “Reckon I missed you too.”

In the silence, Harry thinks he can hear water running through the pipes, even though Niall hasn’t got the sink on. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s got Niall pressed to his front, and they could be seconds away from swaying gently together, if he could only glare at the speaker in the corner of the kitchen hard enough to get it to start playing some Adele.

Niall’s jumper smells strongly of washing powder and the stale sort of musk that lends itself to the gender stereotype of Man Smell, which is odd, because Niall is usually bathed in Hugo Boss or something else woodsy and bright. It’s enough to break the moment, though, Harry’s face dragging up out of its refuge back to the real world.

His eyes land on the two bottles of wine, tossed onto the counter, with little to no care for storage. Sometimes Niall is such a lad, it’s suffocating.

“You need to put this in the fridge, at least half an hour to get it to the right temperature.”

“Go on, then. It’s the big grey thing with the doors.”

“Ha ha,” Harry intones, but secretly he’s glad for the distinction, because there are about three other contraptions in Niall’s kitchen that may or may not be refrigerators.

The door is lined with cans of Diet Coke, which he’s never known Niall to be particularly fond of. He slides the two bottles in without comment on Niall’s new caffeine habit and wipes his hands on his jeans, ready to be useful, even though Niall normally doesn’t let him come near his Jamie Olivers.

He used to be a baker. Surely the skills are transferable.

“Set the table, will ya?” Niall nods off to the island, only turning his attention from the stovetop very briefly.

“Of course.”

Usually they eat in front of the telly, blankets draped over their entire bodies so they don’t spill anything on Niall’s terrifyingly white sofa. Now they’ve progressed to a proper dinner table, place settings and all.

Niall’s such a grown up; he’s always felt like a grown up compared to Harry, much more than the few months between them could ever account for. He’s had this way of settling into life like he was prepared to become an old man some fifty-odd years before it was really time.

It gives him pause sometimes, wondering who’s really got it right, or if there’s some sort of sweet spot right in the middle they’re meant to be charging towards. Harry supposes he’ll never know.

Harry stops in his tracks when he notices Niall’s set out three place settings on the island. “Three?”

“Yeah, sorry, I hope you don’t mind if my mate joins us? He’s over for a few weeks, seems sort of, I dunno. Weird to banish him.”

“No, that’s perfectly fine. Of course, honestly, I insist. It’s great. Great idea. Three’s company. Obviously.”

“Okay,” Niall says slowly, like he does when he thinks Harry’s being daft, and turns back to his pan.

Harry’s a little put out that they won’t be alone, on this the holiest of all Christmas romcom days. But he also figures he should have expected it at some point -- Niall’s constantly got friends staying with him. He’s generous like that.

There’s a shuffling sound down the hall, and Harry jerks his head up to see Niall’s guest, freshly showered, shirtless, bearded, ginger, and named Jack Lowden.

It’s -- it’s Jack, Jack’s here in Niall’s house, Niall’s got a house with Jack in, Niall knows Jack, Niall knows Harry, Jack knows Harry, Niall knows Jack? Harry’s brain overheats, like it must power down and restart itself in order to compute how two of his worlds are colliding when he hasn’t given them any sort of permission to do so.

Harry rubs his eyes and blinks thoroughly, thinking for a moment the mirage will dissipate like the Ghost of Harry’s Film Career Past at the stroke of midnight, only he doesn’t. Jack’s still there, pulling a thin t-shirt over his impeccably sculpted torso, wearing Christmas-themed wool bottoms and fancy polka dotted socks.

“All right, H? Happy Christmas. Belated, that is,” Jack says, not even having the decency to seem surprised that Harry’s here. Not in a Harry’s Never Around kind of way, he scrambles to tell himself and no one else. In another way.

“Hiiii,” Harry manages to say, but it’s more like a half-hearted consonant followed by a breath of a vowel, and nothing nearing the warmth he feels for Jack and should be greeting him with.

As he passes by, Jack ruffles a hand through Harry’s hair, like he’s a little brother, or worse, a dog.

Harry watches him go, craning his neck, trying his best to go a full 180 like The Exorcist -- or like the girl from The Exorcist, not the titular exorcist himself, who did no such thing -- until he has to turn his whole body and follow Jack into the kitchen. Not before ducking to check his reflection in the platinum record Niall’s got framed and hung on the wall. His hair, irritatingly, looks better than the results of the half hour of artful tousling Harry’d done before he’d left his place.

“I like that,” Jack’s saying, tugging at Niall’s jumper in quite the same way Harry had.

Niall doesn’t bat his hand away like he did Harry’s though, just says blandly, “You would.”

The oven timer goes and Jack shifts to the side and Niall shifts forward, something elegant in it, a practiced dance. Niall fishes out the tray and sets it on the island, looking over at Jack. “D’you wanna do that while I do this?”

“‘Course.” Jack slides in at the stove, giving the pan a good jiggle like maybe that’s meant to help the whole cooking process.

Jack’s here. Jack’s helping. Niall never lets Harry help. Niall never lets _anyone_ help.

“What are you doing here?” Harry blurts.

They both look over at him, as synchronized as before.

“Dinner?” Niall tries, his eyebrow quirking like Harry’s gone daft again, a world record, twice in four minutes.

“No,” Harry tries again, turning toward Jack. “I mean, like, what are you doing _here_? In Niall’s house. Specifically. For weeks. With Niall. In his house.” Harry clears his throat, rubs his nose, and considers force restarting his brain all over again. It’s like he’s been thrown for a real loop, everything suddenly and violently wrenched out of his control. He hates not feeling in control.

“Ah,” Jack says, waving it off. “Was just in town for a quick gig, thought it’d be convenient. Niall’s awfully hospitable.”

“Yeah,” Niall says, grinning. “I’ve been hospitalizing him.”

They both snicker like they’ve got an inside joke, and Harry hates it. He hates it so much he announces he’s going to go warm his toes finally.

Only the fireplace isn’t going and Harry’s always been rubbish at the real ones -- too young back at his mum’s to learn how to start a fire then, and by the time he’d gotten old enough to play with matches, he’d moved to Southern California.

That’s the least of his worries.

Harry can’t get over it. He paces Niall’s lounge until he threatens to wear a hole in the carpet. It’s not as if Jack and Niall run the same circles, and their six degrees of separation really starts and stops with Harry, and he hasn’t got a single recollection of introducing them.

And he shouldn’t be this unhappy to see Jack -- in fact, he was probably downright rude about it. He loves Jack, has done since the start. Harry’s been rubbish at keeping up with him, but he’s rubbish about keeping up with loads of people when he doesn’t have long-standing tradition with them, or when they don’t call him first.

He’d spent all of promo not so privately wishing to be paired with Jack, because when he threw Jack a joke, Jack would catch it and run with it. Unlike Fionn, who would let the joke slap him in the face then slowly slide onto the floor. Then glare at Harry over the joke’s gasping corpse like he’s being embarrassing for trying to have a bit of fun.

But Jack is a good laugh. Just like Niall is. But Jack belongs to Harry. And Niall belongs to Harry. And if they belong to each other too now, then --

“H, it’s ready,” Niall calls for him, interrupting Harry’s furious stream of greedy reckoning.

Jack’s not at the table yet when Harry arrives, but Niall’s all settled in, napkin over his lap and all. Harry sits next to him. It’s his dinner, his night, and he’s a guest here, same as Jack, but he’s got seniority and that means he gets to sit next to Niall. And he’ll get a better head-on view of Jack and his nicely trimmed beard and the glint in his eyes when he’s making a joke at Harry’s expense.

That feels right.

It’s a good spread for dinner, sautéed vegetables and chicken -- seasoned, that’s a relief -- laid out very aesthetically on Niall’s stripped wood dining table that makes him itch to take a picture.

 _This is new_ , Harry goes to say of the dining table, until he realizes it’s all new, every single bit of Niall’s house that he’s seen, save the odd Moon Man or surfboard from the band or a few guitars he’s had for ages. Niall hasn’t stayed put while Harry wasn’t paying attention.

Harry looks over at him and Niall grins back easily, leaning towards Harry like he’s expecting Harry to do something. Harry manages a smile of his own, and it’s quiet until Jack bustles in with a cutting board of bread.

Jack also thumps a bottle of pills down in front of Niall purposefully, raising his eyebrows in judgment before he retreats without fuss to the other side of the table to sit across from Niall.

“I wasn’t gonna forget,” Niall says blandly.

“I know you weren’t,” Jack says, his voice light as he fills up his wine glass with the Malbec. “You specifically ignored them.”

“They give me a headache.”

“I don’t wanna hear nothing about your reflux, then, young man.”

“We’ve got wine, wine helps.”

“Pills, water, then we’ll see about the wine.”

Harry watches them, his eyes flicking back and forth like they’re following a ping pong ball, until they settle on the bottle of Malbec, that hasn’t been chilled for nearly long enough according to the nice lady at the liquor store, just so he’s not caught watching.

He tries to count the years between them -- last he’d checked it hadn’t been all that many, but there’s something distinctly Grown Up about Jack; he radiates with ease, same as Niall. It’d be aspirational if it weren’t so bloody intimidating.

He looks between the two of them again, quickly, and spends exactly two seconds wondering, _What the hell am I doing here?_

“So, um, like, how do you two. Know each other?” Harry asks, once their plates are full, and they need something to interrupt the light clinking of knives and forks.

Niall simply responds, “Barry,” like that should explain everything. It explains nothing.

Harry didn’t even know Niall knew Barry. It’s like Harry’s got this collection of things that are only his, and Niall’s coming like spilled wine to seep into Harry’s collection until they’re tainted and belong to Niall too, wine-stained. It’s a rather dramatic way of thinking of it, but Harry gets paid a lot of money to think and say dramatic things.

Harry shoves a piece of bread in his mouth and says, “I didn’t know you knew Barry.”

“Well, it’s not my fault you don’t check twitter.”

Harry presses for more details, drags them out of Niall painfully for minutes until he gets as much as the full story as he thinks Niall will tell him. Barry messaged Niall, they met up to hang out a few times, and then once, when they were all three in Dublin, Barry brought Jack along with him. Made a bit of a night of it.

“Phenomenal night,” Jack says around a mouthful of chicken, the first bit of the story he’s bothered to clear up.

“Savage craic,” Niall agrees. “Me and Jack hit it off. And sort of. The rest is history, s’pose.”

Mm, yes, the rest is history that Harry doesn’t know, more accurately. But he finds that place within him that doesn’t care that everyone's hanging out without him and leans into it heavily. “Sounds like,” he says mildly, and leaves it at that.

Niall shrugs, grinning over at Jack, and Jack watches Niall carefully, all intense eyes, his chin propped up on the palm of his hand. He almost looks -- fond of Niall. In an intimate way. And loads of people are fond of Niall, because Niall’s the best ever, but once the feeling hits Harry in the stomach, it won’t be moved, threatening to spend seven years in his digestive tract like a piece of swallowed gum.

 _Shitting christ, what if they’re fucking_?

Harry shakes that thought away quickly, along with every little breadcrumb of proof, because he’s never been much for a conspiracy theory.

Harry tries to settle in a bit, and conversation flows easily between three people who all share enough of a history to know what to say. Jack knows a shocking amount of Niall Trivia, it seems, and Harry’s not good at anything if he’s not good at Niall Trivia.

When Jack casually mentions that time he and Niall had been out on his bike though, Harry eyes him dubiously. First wrong answer in Niall Trivia.

“Niall doesn’t ride on motorcycles. He always says it’s a stupid risk for stupid people,” Harry says, voice shifting into an exaggerated version of Niall’s Irish brogue. He can taste victory now, and oh. It tastes _sweet_.

“I don’t ride on motorcycles that _you’re_ driving,” Niall says, without the decency to acknowledge the impression. “Jack’s been riding for years.”

“ _I’ve_ been riding for years, Niall.”

Niall winces, tries to sound equitable, but fails miserably. “Yeah, but Jack’s like…”

“Like what, exactly?”

Jack leans back in his chair and grins at Harry over his glass of wine. “I’m, like, really good at it.”

That settles itself in Harry’s stomach too, less like a piece of swallowed gum and more like something warm. It’s lascivious to be sure, in the flirty way he and Jack usually are, but Niall’s cheeks are going pink and he hasn’t even gotten into the Malbec.

Harry’s eyes narrow of their own accord. He knows that blush.

Dinner ends swiftly enough after that, Harry insisting on clearing up and doing the dishes. Niall ends up doing most of them obviously, because he’s rather particular, but Harry’s moral support is priceless and should never go uncredited. He sends Harry off to the lounge when the popcorn’s popping.

By the time Harry makes his way there, Jack is already sprawled across the end of Niall’s beige sectional, propped up by a houndstooth cushion. He’s scowling at his phone, mortifyingly typing with one finger. Wonderful. He’ll be joining them for the film too then.

Jack sits up and pats his thighs invitingly as Harry rounds the corner.

“Joining me?”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry grumbles, as Niall follows in after him with a bowl of popcorn.

“Can’t even tell you the number of tweets I’ve had about that. Your people are...”

“Passionate?”

“Sure,” Jack snorts.

“Well my own mother told me I have the gait of a vomiter, so I guess we’re even.”

Harry doesn’t even know why he allows Anne to get on the internet. Honestly, he should just lock her away in a room with a pair of knitting needles and other mum stuff and she should just be happy there, not checking twitter for things to laugh at him over.

“Well you do, Harry,” Niall says reasonably as Jack cackles. “Everyone always says so.”

Niall settles down on the sofa -- in between them, but at least a few inches closer to Jack. Harry attempts to scowl at them, but he’s biting back a grin, which somewhat dampens the effect.

If he had ever stopped to consider it, Harry doesn’t think he would have been surprised that Niall and Jack get on this well.

It feels right, is the unsettling thing. The two oldest young men in his life, each tooth locking together as a zipper gets pulled up, all because they both like a fancy sock and a good pint and do that thing where they both think they’re speaking English but the words that are coming out of their mouth are absolute nonsense.

He squints over at them, desperately searching for any signs that they might be more than Just Mates, but Niall remains a comfortable, platonic distance from Jack. Although that could just be because his new sofa is bloody enormous.

Harry’s eyes follow Jack’s arm as it weaves its way casually over the back of the sofa, resting just above one of Niall’s shoulders.

It’s nothing he’s not seen Jack do to Aneurin on a night out.

“What are you doing, put that away.” Niall tries to snatch the phone from Jack’s hand, but Jack holds it up and away.

“I’m tweeting the television company.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I _will_ do that,” Jack counters. “I get excellent customer service this way, loads faster than phoning them. You’ll understand more when you’re as famous as I am.”

“What’s the issue?”

Jack picks up a remote and illustrates pointedly. “This says volume. Does fuck all to the volume.”

“That’s the volume for the TV.”

“We are watching the TV.”

“No, we’re doing the DVD player, it’s a separate remote for that, with the speaker system and all.” Niall sounds like he’s trying to tamp down on the exasperation he’d show anyone else in the world. Actually, he looks rather amused at Jack’s confident -- and incorrect -- insistence that he’s got it right.

“A separate -- ” Jack huffs. “Honestly, I’ll do you a favor on this one. Go on and google _universal remote_ , it’s meant to do up all your remotes in one.”

“I don’t think that’s what it is at all.”

“Type it into your phone, you’ll see.”

By this point, Harry has found the correct remote on the ottoman in front of them. He presses _Play Movie_ and turns the volume up on the DVD. He’s not trying to prove a point by it or anything -- he’s just got a tradition to uphold and it’s high time they get on with it.

Niall looks between the movie and Jack. “Later, the movie’s on.”

“Right, Harry? Tell him I’m right.”

Oh, how nice, they’ve decided to remember he’s here. “I don’t own a telly,” Harry says.

They both just look at him, wearing matching unimpressed expressions to accompany their matching bloody fancy socks.

“Of course you don’t,” chirps Jack, just as the jaunty tune of _The Holiday_ opening begins.

For all his posturing about the film, Harry hardly watches it, focused on furiously studying the two of them while trying to pretend he’s not looking at them at all.

Niall and Jack don’t cuddle or kiss or slowly drift closer to each other. But Jack knows where the extra blankets are, and Niall is laughing at all of Jack’s jokes about Cameron Diaz. The signs are there, the signs are not there.

Onscreen, Jude Law’s tiny daughters are begging him to play Mr. Napkinhead in shrill, piercing voices.

“Oh, oh! You know who they sound like?” Niall asks, slapping the back of his hand against Jack’s shoulder.

“Harry?”

“Heyyyyyy,” Harry whines, rubbing his cheek against the cushion he’s got his arms wrapped around.

“Aww, Jack, c’mon, you’re making him pout.” Niall reaches over to stroke Harry’s face, giving him a little slap while he’s at it.

Harry can’t tell if he’s pleased by the attention, well used to being the butt of all jokes everywhere, or if he should be offended on his own behalf. He’s nowhere near that posh.

Rotten Jasper’s on screen doing something nasty when Niall says, “Thirsty.” He’s still not touched the Malbec, which is fine, because at this point, Harry’s nearly polished off both bottles on his own.

Jack gets up, his hand pressing against Niall’s thigh to steady himself, and Harry zeroes in on it, expecting there to be some sort of handprint left behind, glowing infrared to start throwing all manner of warnings and claxons in his head because Jack’s touched Niall.

Dammit, and Harry had _just_ started to relax.

“Do you want a,” Jack says, but doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Yeah,” Niall says, looking up at him.

“With or without the.”

“Did I like it last time?”

“Ah, I think you did.”

“Alright. Trust ya.”

Barely English. Barely English not because neither of them are English but because they’ve developed themselves a couple-level shorthand.

“Just a water for me, thanks,” Harry says, because he has a mouth too.

Jack returns with a pint glass of water and a bottle of Blue Moon with an orange slice in and hands them out, before settling back onto his side of the couch, appearing to not have gotten anything for himself.

Harry purposefully relaxes his face; he’s gonna get wrinkles if he keeps furrowing like this. He dedicates himself to the film, all the way to the end, with nothing but his glass of water and this shockingly soft cuddling pillow to keep him company.

Any time his eyes even hint at wandering over in Niall and Jack’s direction, he pinches himself, trying to create some sort of Pavlovian response. It works well enough, all the way into the happy ending, the end credits. Harry almost breathes a sigh of relief when Jack rises from the sofa on his own.

“Well. That’s me done, I think,” Jack says. He wiggles his hands at Harry until Harry agrees to leave the safety of his blanket-and-pillow cocoon for a hug. “Was great catching up with ya, mate, we should do this again.”

“We should,” Harry answers, and he’s generous enough of spirit to actually mean it.

“You good to get home?” Niall asks.

Harry pulls up short. Home? Even with Jack here, Harry’d been vaguely thinking he’d still end up in Niall’s bed tonight, Jack forgotten in some remote guest bedroom. It’s liminal spacemas. It doesn’t end until he’s curled up in Niall’s California king, whispering truths he has no business sharing with anyone else just because Niall’s face is open and honest.

“I -- yeah, I’ll be fine,” Harry responds, too taken aback to even argue.

“Have a good one, H,” Jack says, clapping him one last time on the shoulder. He bends to whisper something into Niall’s ear and squeeze the back of his neck before he heads off, widening Niall’s eyes and earning himself a yelled, “Fucker” to follow after him.

That’s Harry’s move. Harry knows exactly what that move means and, just like that, everything that was once muddied shifts into a stunning, startling clarity.

He thinks, mortified, that it must have been Jack’s jumper he was nuzzling his stupid face into earlier.

He’s been here all night and they didn’t even bother telling him. Did they think he just wouldn’t notice? The cooking and the beer and the neck-squeezing? Do they think he’s _that_ self-absorbed?

Niall should have told him. He’s gonna make Niall tell him.

But he’s got to be delicate about it, about how to approach it; the picture of subtlety, wit, and poise. Harry clears his throat in preparation.

“So. You and Jack, huh?”

Niall raises his eyebrows and says, “Me and Jack what?”

“Are you two, you know….”

“Hmm?”

“Together?”

“Oh yeah,” Niall says, like _isn’t that something._ “Been a few months now. Bobby’s mad about him. Jack’s been teaching him the ballet.”

Harry doesn’t know what to process first -- it’s been a few months, he’s met Bobby which means they’ve officially Labeled themselves, they’re all having a grand time without Harry talking about the bloody _ballet_.

“What.”

“Well, not, I mean, Bobby’s not _doing_ ballet, he’s just watching and all. Jack’s brother dances for the Royal Swedish Ballet.”

“I know that,” Harry says, defensively, wondering if he actually did know that.

“Yeah,” Niall says, not even looking at Harry, just sort of doing this thousand-yard stare that means all his attention is on Jack even though he’s not even here and Harry is. “Bobby’s got _opinions_ , bro, just last week he was going on and on, _don’t think the new prima at the Bolshoi’s quite up to snuff_.”

Harry generally finds quite a bit of delight in Niall’s spot-on Bobby Horan impression, but this time he can’t even manage a smile.

Niall watches him closely, his eyebrows going furrowed like they do whenever he’s trying to burrow his way into Harry’s thoughts. “What’s eating you?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, and there’s absolutely nothing petulant about it.

“It’s not like we were keeping it secret or anything. Everyone knows.”

“Everyone,” Harry repeats. He’s going to kill Tom.

Niall turns from him, running a hand through his hair, anxious-like. And now Harry’s made him stressed, that’s just -- perfect. “I dunno what you want me to say, H. What’s my next line?”

“You just -- you didn’t tell me.”

“I found out about your last girlfriend from the bloody Sun.”

“That’s not -- ” Fair, applicable, the same thing, Harry’s not sure, but Niall doesn’t give him the option to finish.

“What’d you want, a personal, handcrafted announcement? Mr. Niall Horan and Mr. Jack Lowden are pleased to announce they’re fucking?”

Harry lifts his chin. “If it’s on the menu.”

He can see Niall’s getting frustrated by the red tint of his ears, the way his lips press together, thin, in another perfect imitation of his father. Of a grown up.

“To which of your assistants should I have sent it?”

Harry sees where he stands then. No personal, handcrafted announcement needed. “Okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

He gathers up his DVD first, then starts walking for the door, Niall following closely behind with a murmured, “I’ll walk you out.”

He’s not mad, he thinks, as he’s texting for a car. There’s really no reason to be. It makes so much sense, the two of them, Harry’s _almost_ mad about it. But he’s not.

He’s jealous, maybe, not of Niall, not of Jack, not specifically, just the whole thing.

“Look,” Harry says when Niall’s fishing his coat and scarf from the closet. “I’m really happy for you both, which I know sounds like it could be really sarcastic, but I mean it. I am. I love Jack, I love you. Match made in heaven, honest.”  

Niall turns, Harry’s bundle of clothes in his hands. He lifts an eyebrow and waits -- it’s not his line yet.

Harry sits on the shoe cubby’s bench, sniffing and trying to hide the cracks in his armor. “I just wish you had told me.”

“Time moves ever on, Harold,” he answers, affecting this posh voice that he drops to add, “with or without ya.”

Harry stops, half his foot shoved into his shoe, his finger just lingering there by his heel, waiting to be put to use.

It is different now, Niall’s kept moving. Harry’s kept moving -- Harry’s been running forward, often without a path to follow, just to say he’s moving.

They’re communicating through magazine articles, getting regular updates on each other’s lives by the grace of the paparazzi.

He could have called. Either of them. This must be his punishment for both of the WhatsApp Debacles (of both 2015 and 2016). Not knowing about this is the perfect ammunition -- he genuinely will never hear the end of it from both of his sets of boys as long as he lives, he just knows it.

He stands when his shoes are on, let’s Niall wrap him in his coat first, then a hug. It’s warm and familiar and smells of Jack and Harry rubs his face in it anyway.

“Love ya,” Niall says, his face pressed into Harry’s coat, soft enough it might never have happened at all. But Harry heard it.

Niall holds him for exactly as long as they can stand it, detaching himself just north of the ninety second mark and giving Harry’s arse a quick but thorough squeeze.

“I should have asked after you. Either of you. Both of you. I’m sorry.”

Niall winds Harry’s scarf around his neck twice over, like maybe he makes to strangle him, but then he just tucks it gently into Harry’s coat. “Suppose I could have sent you an email or something. Sorry.”

Harry feels like he owes Jack something of an apology too, while he’s in a generous mood, but he can’t go stomping through the house to -- Niall’s bedroom. God knows what he’s doing in Niall’s bedroom.

So this feels like the end of it, like the pause at the end of a chapter, the lights about to dim to ready for the next scene.

Harry opens the door to a blast of cold, the spirit of Liminal Spacemas insisting he stay the night, surely. But he’s gotta go, he even steps out of the safety of Niall’s house.

“Here, wait,” Niall says, and for a hopeful, blessed second, Harry thinks he’ll be asked to stay. “Let me show you something. It’s going to change your life.”

“Oh really?” Harry asks, eyes wide and intrigued.

“Yeah.” Niall digs his phone out of his pocket and starts tapping at it. Harry watches him curiously until his own phone starts to buzz in his back pocket.

Harry rolls his eyes, finally catching on, but gamely pulls out his phone and gasps.

“See that green button?” Niall says, leaning in close, shoulder to shoulder to look at the screen, Harry down a step outside, Niall up in the house, his socked toes perfectly warm.

The screen’s lit up with a candid of Niall laughing at someone else, done up in black and white, a secret shot Harry snapped years back and has never shown anyone. Niall has the decency not to say anything about it.

“You press it when I call you,” Niall says. “Change your life, every time, guaranteed.”

“Okay, okay.” Harry hits the red button anyway.

“Hang on,” Niall teases. “I didn’t even show you the best part.”

Harry looks up at him, the corners of his mouth twitching with the promise of a smile. “What’s that?”

“It works both ways. You can do the same thing to me. I press that green button and it’s like I’m right there, telling you all the dirty details about me and Jack shagging that you seem to be so desperate to know.”

Harry’s jaw drops. “It’s just like magic.”

Niall cackles, delighted, and there’s another pause. Like Niall’s waiting for Harry to do something, maybe, but Harry doesn’t know what to do.

“What’re you lot doing, standing here with the door wide open?” Jack asks, joining them at the door. “You’re going to let all the heat out.”

He hooks his chin on Niall’s shoulder -- the clearest sign of affection Harry’s seen from them all night, a patented Boyfriend Move.

 _They’re fucking_ , Harry thinks, but all of the mortification has somehow drained from the thought.

“Were you spying?” Niall accuses.

“Certainly not,” Jack says, his arms winding around Niall’s waist. His hands look comfortable there, like they’re the sole owners of that spot.

Harry doesn’t know what to say, still doesn’t know what to do, but Niall, dependable as always, does the heavy lifting.

“We’re having a moment,” Niall says. And Harry’s heart stops in his chest for an instant, thinking Niall’s going to spill all of it, all of Harry’s inadequacies, unbidden. But then Niall adds, “Harry’s figured out we’re together and I can’t tell which one of us he’s more jealous of.”

Harry huffs out a _ha_ , like the very thought is laughable, when it’s definitely not. He’s happily wrapped himself around Niall a couple hundred times in their time together. But he would quite like to be the little spoon too, wrapped comfortably in Jack’s well-built arms.

Jack laughs and asks, his voice low, practically purring into Niall’s ear, “He’s not had you then?”

“Nah. Not for lack of trying though. On his part, of course,” Niall answers, like he was indulging Harry’s cute little crush, and he wasn’t the recipient and reciprocator of some very deliberate flirtatious overtures.

Harry makes a strangled noise, starts on a halfhearted, “Now hang on a minute,” just to defend his own honor, as it seems no one else is going to.

But nobody’s listening anyway. Niall’s just looking over at Jack, his neck tilted at an awkward angle. “What about you?”

“Same.” Jack locks Harry into a dark stare Harry couldn’t possibly imagine pulling away from. “And that’s a damn shame.”

They’re talking as if he isn’t there, again, but this time it’s different. He doesn’t feel on the outside of it, he feels firmly right in the middle of the world’s most sexually frustrating sandwich.

Niall relaxes a little bit back into Jack’s arms, humming, and says, “Well, maybe for his birthday or something.”

He’s trying to laugh, because he’s fairly certain it’s a joke, but he can’t trust what sound his body might make just then.

“Happy New Year’s, H,” Niall says, as he closes the door in Harry’s face, Jack’s hand lifting from Niall’s waist for a wave just a second before the door closes.

Harry’s left standing paralyzed on their doorstep, utterly betrayed and somehow also utterly aroused. He stands there, staring at the novelty Ireland-themed wreath Niall’s still got hanging on his door, until his car arrives.

He slides into the car as quickly as he can, doing his part to greet his driver, banter about Christmas and New Year’s until they’ve both been polite enough that they can go about their business.

He pulls out his phone, tapping at the calendar so furiously that he opens three other apps before it finally pops up. One, two, three, four, five, he counts. Five weeks exactly.

\----

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! If you need us, we are [here](http://veryniceandgood.tumblr.com) and [here](http://wickershire.tumblr.com). Tumblr post [here](https://wickershire.tumblr.com/post/169084166718/happy-liminal-spacemas-jack-lowdenniall-horan).


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